California Romance (5 page)

“I’m not like you, Mama,” Sarah confessed in a whisper, giving Timmy one last boost onto the attic floor. “I can’t be patient and kind to these rowdy youngsters when my own world is falling apart. I’m sorry.”

“What did you say, Sarah?” Timmy asked quietly.

“Never you mind.” She tumbled him onto his pallet and tucked the quilt around his peaked face. She rose. “You just go to sleep. It’s late.”

“Sarah?”

“What now?” Sarah snapped.

“You—you ain’t leavin’ us to marry that gambler fellow, are you?”

Sarah caught her breath at the fear she heard in Timmy’s voice. Reaching down, she patted him on the leg. “I don’t know, Timmy. I hope not. But it’s nothing you have to worry about right now.”

Before he could reply, Sarah crept around the partition and onto her own mattress. The corn husks rustled and crackled while she tried to find a comfortable position for her weary body. Soon she lay still. The rustling ceased. Only the soft laughter of the boys downstairs and the occasional snore of a drunken Gus Stoddard floated up through the hole in the ceiling.

Although Sarah’s body was at last at rest, her mind was spinning. The verse from Corinthians about escaping temptation repeated itself in her mind. Her escape from Tice Edwards by offering to pay Gus’s debt was obviously not a viable plan. There must be another way to escape.

A familiar verse from Genesis 12 popped into her head.
“Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee.”

Leave?
Sarah held her breath and stared at the pale moonlight peeking through the cracks in the attic roof.
Run away?
She shivered in the dark. How could she just up and leave? She had no place to go, no money to get there. Worse, she would be alone—dreadfully alone.

“Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”

Sarah held her breath in wonder. All those Bible verses she’d learned as a child were coming back to her just when she needed them most. But again, the word
how
kept rearing its ugly head—mocking her, urging her to stay and accept her future. She wavered. In spite of her unspoken vows never to marry until she felt God approved, maybe marrying Tice Edwards wouldn’t be as bad as she was making it out to be. He was rich. He seemed polite and was obviously interested in her. He had spoken gently to her and prevented Gus from striking her.

She chewed on her lip in deep thought and rolled onto her side. The corn husks rustled loudly. There would be no corn-husk mattress waiting for her if she married Tice. Only silks and satins. Soft, smooth bedcoverings. No leaking roof. Then, like a clap of thunder, the memory of her mother’s marriage to Gus resounded in her memory. Sarah remembered how content her mother had appeared when she knew she was marrying a man who would care for her and for her children. Gus had also seemed the perfect gentleman—before the wedding.

“I can’t marry Tice Edwards,” Sarah resolved between clenched teeth. “I don’t love him. I don’t even know him. I must escape. I have no choice.” That decided, she gave the situation over to the One who knew exactly what He was doing. “I don’t know how I’m going to escape, God, or where I’m going to go,” she whispered in the darkness of the attic, “but I do know You’re the only One who can help me now. Show me the way.” She sighed, turned over, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Eighteen months earlier
Central California

M
atthew Sterling rode into Madera and dismounted in front of Moore’s General Store—which housed the post office—thirsty enough to drain a well. It was over a hundred degrees in the shade, and there was no shade on the ten miles between town and Matt’s Diamond S Ranch. Just flat land, dry grass, and a glimpse of the snowcapped Sierra Nevada in the distance, so far away and hazy in the shimmering late September air that the mountains looked like a mirage.

With a practiced flick of his wrist Matt led his favorite buckskin gelding, Chase, to the well-filled horse trough in the middle of town, being careful not to let him drink his fill. “Whoa there,” he ordered. “You don’t want to founder.” He raised his canteen to his own parched lips and grimaced when the lukewarm water poured down his throat.

Matt forced the reluctant horse away from the trough and secured the reins around a nearby hitching rail before giving Chase an affectionate slap on the chest. “Won’t be more than a minute, old boy. Gotta pick up the mail, swap a quick ‘howdy’ with the captain, then it’s back to the ranch for a cool drink and some shade.” He chuckled as he always did when he thought about stopping by the hotel to greet the captain. He’d known Captain Russell Perry Mace ever since he was a small child, but Matt had never heard the stocky adventurer called anything but
the captain. I guess once a captain, always a captain. Even if the Mexican War’s been over for ages
, Matt thought. Between his title and his ever-present top hat, Captain Mace was an easily recognized figure anywhere in Madera.

Chase shook his dark mane and snorted as if to hurry his master along. He stamped a hoof, and a swirl of pale yellow dust rose up and billowed around the young man.

“Hey!” Matt admonished with a laugh. “None of that. I won’t be long.” He glanced down at his dust-caked shirt and chaps. What was a little extra dust at this point? He’d been out on the range all day and had built up a good supply of dirt long before Chase showered him.

“Howdy, Matt. Haven’t seen you around town for a spell. How’re things on the Diamond S?”

Matt turned. Evan Moore, Madera’s portly postmaster stood in the doorway of his store grinning. His bald head glistened in the hot afternoon sun. Matt smiled back. “Busy, Evan. Fall roundup’s just around the corner.”

“Got a full crew?”

“Pretty much. Wish I didn’t have to hire on drifters.” Matt shook his head and joined the postmaster on the wooden sidewalk. “They’re nothing but trouble, but if I don’t snatch ’em up, Chapman over at the Redding Ranch is likely to hire ’em. I don’t want to be caught shorthanded this year.”

“I don’t blame you.” Evan motioned the young rancher to follow him inside the store. “Don’t worry about the dust,” he said when Matt removed his wide-brimmed felt hat and slapped it against his chaps before entering. “Can’t seem to escape the dust, no matter how hard a body tries. Just like this infernal heat.” Evan wiped the sweat from his shining head and strolled to the small cubicle behind the counter that served as the Madera Post Office. He reached into a pigeonhole and withdrew a fistful of envelopes addressed to Matthew Sterling, c/o Diamond S Ranch. “Sorry, Matt. Nothing from Dolores.”

“Drat that girl,” Matt muttered, swiping at the stubborn hank of black hair that hung over his eyes like a horse’s forelock. He replaced his Stetson and sorted through the letters with a scowl. “Don’t they teach young ladies to write at that fancy finishing school back east? You’d think Dori could send word to her only brother that she’s alive and happy.”

The postmaster made no comment.

Matt sighed. He missed little Dori. He missed her chatter. He even missed the silly, affected airs she put on when she wasn’t happy with the way things were going out at the ranch. Sending her to school in Boston had been Solita’s idea, not his. “Senor Mateo, you must let the senorita finish her education,” the diminutive Mexican housekeeper had insisted. “She is unhappy here. Your mama and papa would have allowed it, had they lived. Since they are no longer with us, you must decide what is best for her, not what is best for
you.”

Matt had agreed, but he wasn’t pleased about it. The white stucco, Spanish-style hacienda seemed huge and empty with the only remaining member of his family gone. He enjoyed these rare visits to Madera. Picking up the mail—a task easily done by any greenhorn ranch hand—was Matt’s excuse to mingle with the friendly people of the small valley town.

Madera—lumber
in Spanish—was the perfect name for the thriving little village that had sprung up all at once a few years back. The California Lumber Company had chosen this site along the Southern Pacific Railroad line as the terminus for their timber flume back in 1876. Six months later the town had been laid out, and building had commenced at a lively rate. Matt often paused in the middle of the wide main street to take in the three hotels, three general stores, the drugstore, butcher shop, blacksmith shop, and livery. He thanked God each and every time for timber, flumes, and lumber companies. No longer isolated on his ranch ten miles east of nowhere, the rancher and his hands benefited from the influx of new businesses and the people who ran them. All in all, Madera was—in Matt’s opinion—just about the prettiest and most wide-awake town in the entire San Joaquin Valley.

Matt gave Evan a curt good-bye and left the post office in ill humor. It rankled him that Dori, as usual, was probably caught up in her own affairs and wouldn’t get around to writing her brother until Christmas. He stuffed the handful of envelopes into his saddlebag and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why the good Lord made girls in the first place,” he muttered. “Trouble. Nothing but trouble.”

Matt shook himself free of musings. Thinking about Dori and her irresponsibility invariably made him remember Lydia Hensley.
Forget about her
, he ordered himself, clenching his jaw.
That’s over. I’m free of her, and I won’t waste the rest of a perfectly good afternoon reflecting on what went wrong between us
.

“Let’s get on home, Chase,” Matt mumbled to his horse. His trip to town, which he’d looked forward to all day, had turned into a disappointment. Now all he wanted was a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a tall, cool glass of Solita’s lemonade—in that order. He untied Chase and glanced toward the elegant, two-story hotel that occupied the best lot in town. “I’ll catch the captain later, I guess, though he’ll probably give me what for for not stopping by.”

Before he could mount up, the swinging doors to Dunlap’s Saloon flew open. A wizened, bewhiskered man tore down the wooden sidewalk bellowing, “Somebody get the sheriff!”

Matt gave the old man a disgusted look when he stumbled across the street to where Matt stood beside his horse. The one blight on this town was the saloons that kept cropping up. He’d been glad when Captain Mace turned his saloon into a hotel a few years back, but another saloon just sprang up in its place—and another, and another, until there were more saloons than churches in Matt’s beloved town.

“What’s the trouble, Dan?” he asked the wheezing, wide-eyed man. “Can’t Dunlap keep control of his customers?”

Dan Doyle reached out to steady himself against Matt’s horse. “It’s bad, Matt. Some wild-eyed, greenhorn kid came tearin’ into the saloon yellin’ that a two-legged skunk stole his horse. Like t’near started tearin’ the place apart.”

“Sounds like the usual scuffle. What’s got you so fired up?”

Dan was breathing hard. “ ’Cause he’s just a kid, and it’s Red Fallon he’s accusin’.”

Matt caught his breath. It sounded like this wasn’t the usual fray that went on behind barroom doors. Red had a mean streak. He was an excellent cowhand, but the fiery redhead couldn’t control his temper or hold his liquor—facts that kept him drifting from job to job. Against his better judgment Matt had hired Red on for the fall roundup. Now it already looked like he was going to regret it.

“I can’t stay and jaw with you, Matt,” Dan burst out. “I gotta get the sheriff quick, or there’s gonna be a killin’. You oughta go over there and see if you can step in. Red’s one of yer hands.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Matt grimaced, set his jaw, and stepped into the street.

“Watch yourself, Matt.” Dan gave a final warning. “Red’s got a knife.”

Matt grunted and hitched Chase to the rail again. A few long strides across the street and a  mighty shove of the swinging doors put Matt inside the saloon—a place he only entered when he was obliged to round up some of  his Diamond S hands after an occasional Saturday-night binge. The scene before him was one of wild confusion—just as Dan had described. Red Fallon towered over a stripling lad, knife in one hand, his other fist upraised. His steel gray eyes gleamed; a dangerous smile showed through his unkempt red beard.

The kid, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, shook as he lay on the sawdust-covered floor. Matt sensed it was from rage, not fear. Blood poured from his nose. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and he was gasping for breath. His hand clutched his other arm, which told Matt that Red’s knife had probably been busy. Clearly undaunted, the kid glowered at the hulking cowhand.

In spite of himself, Matt grinned. Although the kid was roughed up pretty bad, he didn’t look beaten. Matt expected the boy to go after Red again at any moment. He could see it in the flashing blue
eyes. Down but not out
.
Thinks he can take on a grizzly bear! Just like Robbie
. In a flash the memory of Matt’s little brother—much younger—going after Matt came to mind. His grin widened. A pair of cubs, neither of whom would admit defeat no matter what.

Matt was right. Uttering a shriek reminiscent of an Indian war cry, the youth sprang to his feet and lurched at Red, ramming his head into the big man’s belly. With a surprised
oof
, Red reeled back, right into Matt’s arms.

W
hat’s going on in here?” Matt demanded of the cowhand. He heaved Red away from the boy, who was stumbling around, flailing his arms, and trying to stay on his feet.

“I’ll kill that little upstart!” Red bellowed, lunging past Matt with murder in his eyes. His knife flashed.

Quick as lightning, Matt lashed out and grasped Red’s knife hand. A twist, and the knife thudded to the floor. Matt picked it up, brushed away the sawdust, and laid it on the bar.

Red glared at Matt. “This ain’t your affair, Boss.” He pointed a meaty finger at the kid. “This is between me and him.” He took a step toward the youth, who backed away, still clutching his arm. Blood flowed freely between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice.